Embryo
by Cannibal Incorporated
Summary: "I wasn't anyone then, Professor. For four months I wasn't anyone; not even to myself. I had no fame, no direction, no desires. And I've never been more content to just sit in Hogwarts, swallowed up in obscurity until I'd turn to dust... Then I got involved with Tom Riddle. And I suddenly started wanting things again." TR/HP LV/HP


_Where it begins..._

_I_

The golden light was a physical blow; a penetration so sharp that the boy felt a resonating pressure on every side of his skull.

He flinched in the wake of the light's power, and was so jarred, he didn't know who or where he was.

It was like waking up; his mind still caught in the cobwebs of a half-remembered dream while his body was already thrusting him into the conscious world.

Except he could not remember when he'd fallen asleep, nor did he understand how one second he had been fine, and now... _Merlin_, what a headache! He could hear tail ends of conversations he'd had in other realms not accessible to his awakened mind, irate whispers of "_Clear your mind–_". He wanted to hold onto the fading mutters, but the glaring intensity of whatever-it-was-that-was-so-violently-shining was more than enough to distract him. He was actually concerned that his eyelashes would catch fire from the overwhelming heat! A shame, really, since he was fairly sure someone had once told him they were quite long and attractive.

When it finally occurred to him that the painful light could be banished by simply moving away, the boy turned a sharp one-eighty degrees, and marveled for a second at the sudden shade before he realized that that, in fact, was all it was: shade. He hesitantly glanced over his shoulder to where he could feel the heat of the smoldering glow, once on his eyelids, now at his back. Ah.

A window.

The sunset was glaring through the large, stained glass depicting a woman playing a harp, her fingers a constant and diligent flow over the vibrating strings. She was a miserly thing, forced to play an eternity of silence, and he briefly wondered if he would be able to hear a portion of her lonely music should he press his ear to the sun-warmed glass. The boy could see rolling hills and autumn-browned grounds through the glass woman's opaque, Grecian robes; could see the bramble of weeds at her feet. There was a black line of a forest in the distance, and a rippling black lake towards east, perhaps due to a great sea monster.

He scrunched up his brows, vaguely getting the impression that he hadn't the time to laze around– yet, on the other hand, he hadn't a clue as to where such an impression was coming from in the first place.

_What was I doing, again?_

He frowned. Something about that window was making it ridiculously hard to _concentrate_.

_Papers_, he heard a whisper, and he jerked his head from side to side with a loud "What?", so harsh he was a bit surprised, looking for the source of the bodiless noise, _Delivering papers_.

He gave the stained glass woman a befuddled blink, half expecting it to be _her_ whispering at him, until it suddenly hit him.

That's right. Never mind mysterious voices and their cryptic commands.

He was there to hand in his enrollment papers, and, to his immense relief, found a neat stack of parchment in his furled hands when he looked. **Proof for Exchanged and Enrolling Students for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the following person(s): **_**Harrison**_**– **There they were, light and trustworthy in his secure palms. He felt a wash of clarity that eased the niggling doubt that something just _wasn't right_ into oblivion.

_These hands are mine_, he thought, clenching them for the sheer feel of it, and glanced at the top page again. _Me._ _**Harrison**_, he caught in the sloppy, angled script he recognized as his own. Yes, that was right.

What else would his name be?

He adjusted his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his thin nose. He looked up and down the passageway again, trying to remember the number of turns he was away from the entrance hall. A few portraits looked at him sympathetically, but he was simply too stubborn to ask them for directions.

He was _sure_ he knew where he was as he didn't feel the mild panic that often accompanied finding one's self lost; he just had to remember where exactly _here_ was. These halls looked familiar enough, and Harrison smiled. It was almost as though this wasn't his first day at Hogwarts at all.

"Now," he said to himself, letting his feet take him up the nearest set of stairs, as if they knew exactly where to go, "to Headmaster Dippet's office."

After all, it wouldn't do to be late.

_II_

_Their robes are wrinkled_, Tom thought to himself. Their robes were wrinkled, their hair was less than impeccable– ruffled as if they'd all hung their heads out of the Hogwarts Express the entire ride. _Unbearable_.

He'd gotten so good, though, at adopting a look of perfect interest and total rapture on his admittedly flawless face that his little underlings were never the wiser. He'd learned very early on that his face was a weapon of its own, and so long as he maintained tight control over it, with the right casting of eyelashes or a certain tilt of the lips, he could have any mortal soul greedily eating from the palm of his hand. Never mind his classmates' glaring imperfections– the purpose they served for him far outweighed any possible annoyances they could rouse.

They were at the start-of-term feast, an insistent buzz of consortium and giggling ricocheting off the faux clouds above, and Tom took great pride in not cracking every time someone's laughter peeked to volumes wholly unwelcome. Sometimes, he had to remind himself that it was normal for human beings, and furthermore, _children_, to experience such emotional intensity.

A few third or fourth year females gave off high, snide chortles of whatever gossip it was they were devouring, and Tom was ever thankful he had a safe three meter distance between them and him.

Often, he amended himself then. He had to remind himself _often_.

They were talking about their summers, which countries they'd toured, which dueling lessons they'd been taught, all of that, and they might have included Tom except for the fact that there was an unspoken rule to _never_ ask Tom what he did when away from Hogwarts. _Of course_, _they have no idea_, Tom thought darkly, nor would they ever. And there was always something in his expression, something in his eyes that cast a sinister glare where the light caught every time someone decided to get a little curious.

For example, while Tom was surrounded by his usual lot, they were not seated at random; rather, they were _arranged_, giving himself a buffer made of those he could tolerate between himself and those he could _not_. The most mature of his company were a calm, refined box that kept silly girls and brutish boys away until they could be properly trained. Nott, a fellow sixth year and long-time lap dog, was under the impression he was sitting beside Tom because he was favored– and at that, Tom had to curl his lip, for he did not have any _favored_ – but no. It was simply a fact that out of all of these little chickadees corralled around him, Nott was often the most _quiet_. It was a common folly; Nott wasn't the first to mistake an act of convenience for a blessing. After all, slaves were slaves, no matter their dispositions.

"Look at them," Ignatius Prewett murmured over the rim of his drink, very nearly provoking Tom to snap at him for mumbling, but he had to keep up appearances, had to stay within the strict walls of stoicism, for he had no interest in his servants' affairs or conversations, and it was that perpetual lack of interest that drew them to him. "The first years look smaller every year, I swear."

"Pathetic lot," Cygnus agreed softly with a nod, and Tom thought that was rather funny considering the Black youth was only a third year himself, and hardly a mark or dent on the totem pole of things that mattered.

"Watch it," Rosier snapped at the younger boy across from him. "My sister is getting sorted this year."

Cygnus' face colored pink in embarrassment and Prewett chuckled quietly.

"Isn't sweet, little Druella your betrothed, Cygnus? Are you going to hold her hand and show her to her classes?"

The young Black's face went molten red in his humiliation and anger, but he wisely held his tongue.

Tom allowed his gaze to travel along the heads of the students to the front of the Great Hall where he saw the rickety wooden stool and the even further emaciated Sorting Hat. There was a gaggle of fidgeting children near the doors, lead by Albus Dumbledore, and Tom could confirm with his own eyes what Prewett had stated earlier: the first years _did_ appear to get smaller with each passing generation. Smaller, and ever more like the stumbling, sacrificial calves they were. _No good_, Tom sighed, _none at all_. How could he recruit these whelps for his Knights when they were little more than mere sheep? He needed more than brainless sacks of flesh waiting to be lead– he already had an abundance in _that_ field.

Tom could hardly stand to look at them any longer, and just as his attention was shifting, blue, _knowing_ eyes flickered from behind a pair of new half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore nodded at him politely; even _smiled_.

Tom felt compelled to flick the imaginary dust from his robes, to straighten them, but resisted the urge because it just would not do to show such weakness in front of his lessers. It was a familiar tick by now, one that arose in the absence of apprehension- Tom Riddle did not _get_ nervous; not since he'd ripped the ability out of himself. He stroked the cool stone of the ring settled snuggly on his middle finger, a reassuring reminder of what he'd gained in discipline and lineage. Yes, he had completely forgotten vulnerability.

"Good evening, my young pupils!" Dippet announced, and while the chatter died down for the most part, hushed conversations continued. Dippet was no master ,and he had never commanded his stage very well. "Welcome to a new year. I know there is quite a bit of fear stirring in our hearts concerning the future because of certain events in Europe, but I look forward to seeing you all grow into accomplished witches and wizards all the same, and I advise you all not to let the commotion affect your academic performance. Let the sorting begin!"

Dippet clambered from his podium back to his seat, allowing Dumbledore the task of calling forth the soon-to-be Hogwarts students. Tom watched the little brats tremble under the Sorting Hat's droopy brim, already impatient for the solitude and the cool, green lanterns of his dorm.

He had expected Dippet to address the problem with Grindelwald more, but it had been a foolish expectation. Dippet never talked openly to his students about events outside the school's grounds, being of the opinion that his school was a place where no such politics or wars reached, as Hogwarts was apparently under oath to remain neutral. It was rather disappointing, and the continued neglect of important, outside affairs was foolish indeed. Tom had taken it upon himself to encourage his peers to subscribe to not only the Daily Prophet (as its information quality and presentation were highly questionable), but other news related posts as well. The esteemed _Windows into the Wizengamot_, for instance.

"Tom! Tom, my boy!" a whispered voice called from the end of the Slytherin table. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever had _dared_ call out to him so casually, so informally, until he saw one round Slughorn beckoning him with wiggling, sausage-like fingers. A round of applause rippled through the tables as a young girl took her place at Ravenclaw. "I've got a task for you," he announced loudly.

Tom stood without hesitation, eager to stop his Head of House from making a larger spectacle of himself as his boisterous voice caught the attention of the Great Hall. A few heads turned in their direction, but Dumbledore continued to read from his roll without comment or pause. Tom motioned with a hand for his little Slytherin followers to focus on the proceedings and not him, as it was bad manners, and it wasn't until he came upon Slughorn that he even saw the boy that stood alongside him, his slight stature having been obscured by Slughorn's more _impressive_ build.

"Tom, this is Harrison. Harrison, this is _Tom Riddle_," Slughorn introduced them raucously over Dumbledore's continuous voice, emphasizing Tom's name with great relish. Tom blinked to smooth out the need to grimace as a few more students turned towards them for the second time, startled at Slughorn's conspicuous announcement.

The boy– and all right, he appeared to be around Tom's age, but he couldn't be a day older– tucked a flyaway strand of dark hair behind his ear before looking up with a brief, just barely polite smile. He looked... bored. Contrived.

"Pleasure." Tom extended a hand, initiating the pleasantries because that was what a pureblood would do. They shook, but even to this, Harrison stayed silent and let go quickly. Tom couldn't help feeling a measure of smug satisfaction at this; he knew his presence was intimidating and naturally dominating, especially to strangers. His aura tended to smother.

"Tom," Slughorn interrupted, his cheeks blotchy red, and Tom concluded that the man had broken out the Starting Feast Firewhiskey a few hours early. "Harrison has just transferred here this past week with very promising entrance exam results. He'll be staring with you and your fellow sixth years, and considering Slytherin has the most room in the dorms, Dippet has decided it would be most efficient to have him board in our fine House. I graciously nominated you as his tour guide for these first few days of term."

Slughorn looked very proud of this election. He was practically blustering with House enthusiasm, probably honored to have the chance to promote Slytherin. Not that Tom would complain. He was welcome to promote all he liked; all good in the long run.

"Mr. Harrison, was it?" Tom looked the boy up and down, and what he found was so unassuming, it was almost suspiciously so. The only thing that struck him about the boy was the unnatural bright green of his eyes. "I will be glad to guide you."

It was in his nature to guide anyway, Tom thought, as his rightful place was above everyone else. Of course he was expected to teach, to lead.

"That's right." Harrison gave a small nod and cocked his head a little, the candles catching in his tear ducts and- something about him transformed then; his face came alive briefly in an indiscernible expression. Tom got the vague impression that the boy was about to start laughing. "And you are... Tom?"

"Riddle," he immediately hissed tightly, picking up on the slight arrogant undertones in the other boy's voice and not finding the disrespect humorous in the least. "It's Riddle, please."

Even if his surname reminded him of his disgusting father, it was infinitely more proper and less common than _Tom_.

"Sure."

Harrison walked passed him to the Slytherin table and Tom allowed it, lifting his hand to Harrison's back so that it appeared less as if Tom was following and more as though he was steering him the way, and as Harrison made to move to the first empty seat, he grabbed him gently but firmly by the shoulder.

"Please," he said, making those green eyes turn onto him, light, eerie, "sit across from me."

Tom motioned to Lestrange from the distance. "Up."

It was standard procedure, and Lestrange obediently rose from his seat across from Tom to elbow Avery over, so that the new and potential member of their group could be seated directly in front of Tom. He was quite good– amazing, really– at Legilimency and at reading body language, and newcomers were guaranteed to be subjected to his many _talents_. After all, they couldn't have the unworthy waltzing freely into their domain.

"Please, Harrison," he said and gestured to the now vacant spot to which the boy easily rounded the table to take. Tom brushed a stray hair back into place, sat down with practiced ease and set his shoulders. He smiled. Harrison settled in his place, glancing to either side of him and offered a relaxed smile to Lestrange and Rosier.

"So, Harrison," he began in a soft voice so as not to bring more attention to them– Slughorn had thankfully taken his post up at the staff table without another word– and his little puppies all fell silent to listen in, to witness the make or break, the in or out casting. "You are an exchange student, correct? Where were you schooled before coming to Hogwarts?"

It was light, easy conversation, a lure if nothing else. Get him to loosen up first, and he'd be spouting off everything he'd ever known by the time dessert came around.

"Oh, I was tutored privately."

Tom's smile was frozen in place, not a tick or twitch to be accounted for. He was well-practiced- _perfect_, he thought, _yes_– perfect as always, now and forever.

"And your tutor? Rosier, here, has been tutored by the ninth great-grand nephew of Herpo the Foul since he was eleven; perhaps you have had the pleasure of being under his tutelage as well?" Tom pushed, testing the boy's connections. If he'd gotten himself a famous teacher, he'd raise in ranks. If the teacher was Dark, he'd get a little, silver star to stick on his forehead. Tom's smile stretched at the thought.

"Not at all," Harrison laughed softly, running a hand through his half-hazard, wavy, black locks, and Tom became uncharacteristically distracted by the disarray, watching wisps of black float and stick up. "I couldn't have taken the pressure of learning under someone so grand. Just a friend of the family did perfectly well for me."

A few of the Slytherins' lips curled in disdain, but their ring master inclined his head at them for calm. _Never fear, little ducklings, not all hope is lost_. This Harrison, this unkempt, scrawny child still had a chance, slim it may be. Tom mulled over his next approach. Possibility of high societal connections: low. Intelligence level, then?

"Professor Slughorn certainly thought your Hogwarts entrance exam scores were something to be praised. What did your family friend teach you? Your favorite subject, perhaps?"

Harrison's eyes lightened up a little, but there was something other than enthusiasm lurking behind those green orbs, something very much like mirth, as if there was a joke being told somewhere else in the room and only he was privy to the punchline.

"He was exaggerating a bit. I scored what was expected. And I was taught a little bit of everything, I suppose. Mostly theory, rather than practical, but I feel very prepared to be enrolled here. I think it'll be as if..." His gaze cut to the ceiling thoughtfully– and Tom had the urge to wipe that hazy, sloppy expression off of his face via brutal hex– and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and far away. "...As if I've been here all along."

The boy snapped his attention back to the table, his awareness acute and heavy in Tom's eyes, and it made him wonder if this boy wasn't a little off his shoulders. This insight, however, only amplified Tom's obsessive need for observation. If anything, he was thorough.

"Your favorite subject?" he pressed on again, making a seemingly careless gesture by placing his hand palm-up in the ruse of holding his cutlery. The action simulated an air of openness and vulnerability, something that should connect with Harrison on a subconscious level and make hm return the favor without even realizing it.

"I think your rubric calls it Defense Against the Dark Arts. It's the most action-packed class."

He seemed totally unaware that his statement caused discourse and hatred to ripple across the Slytherin table like that of a Dementor's effect. Tom nodded politely, though on the inside, he could hardly believe Slughorn would allow this kind of wretch into their stronghold- _**my**__ stronghold_, Tom hissed mentally, _taint in __**my **__stronghold_. He looked up at his peers before carefully studying Harrison's face. The boy blinked back at Tom lazily, not a care in the world, not a single thought to the danger he was in. Obviously not registering the danger at all.

"What made you decide to join us in this fine establishment?" he asked, going on with the interrogation for the sheer sake of it. _Just in case._ "Hogwarts isn't the first choice for many parents."

Harrison seemed to think it over. "A change of scenery, I think."

"Were you stuck somewhere dreadful?" Walburga asked in mock empathy, cooing at the boy with a vicious glint in her deep-set, coal black eyes. She had a habit of making meals out of the pretty ones, toying with their minds and insecurities once she'd laid them bare.

"I moved around quite a bit, so not really. But it gets tiring not having a real bed. Sleeping on a cot for the last decade has done something awful to my spine," Harrison answered, chuckling at his own expense. Tom smiled indulgently back at him, encouragingly. _Yes, that's right. Tell us about your experiences._

"A cot?" Walburga gasped in disgust, "Why on earth would you not transfigure it into something standard?"

Harrison considered this.

"Ah... I suppose there isn't enough room when you're boarding up in a place the size of a cupboard."

"What kind of incompetent wizards were you traveling with?" Nott drawled out carelessly, crudely– and Tom had scolded him _ten times over_ about his impoliteness and it appeared he'd need another _reminder_. All for the better anyway, because the next time he called a meeting he'd be doing things a little _differently_.

Harrison tapped his chin and looked off to the side. Tom found his gestures generally practiced, unnatural. As if he was using his body language to stall for something. It made his shackles rise in suspicion. Was something about to happen? Or was he simply so terrible a liar that he had to pause mid-conversation to think? Was this boy some sort of spy? A little soldier for Dumbledore to infiltrate the snakes' den and report back anything suspicious? He wouldn't put it past the old man.

"My traveling companions aren't the type to be concerned, I suppose."

"Your relatives, you mean?"

Harrison gave a slow blink as if he was clearing his head, and when he spoke again his voice held a cold edge. "None that count,"

"Oh-"

"An orphan, then?" Tom cut Rosier off ruthlessly, but his voice was light, barely raised, and appropriately curious.

Harrison smiled cordially, but there was a muddled fire behind his eyes as he stared directly into Tom's face. "That's right."

Something seriously imbalanced in there, Tom decided.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he replied easily while his peers shifted uncomfortably. A very small number of them were aware of his own _circumstances_, and they knew any mention of it would likely lead to a very dangerous scenario.

"Harrison..." he said, rolling the name around silkily, finally cutting to the chase– he'd heard enough, learned all that mattered. It was quite clear that Harrison was to be cast out of the Slytherin community as a social leper by the end of the feast. "That doesn't sound like any surname I'm familiar with. I've never heard of a pureblood line called Harrison,"

"Well, I expect that's because it isn't a pureblood surname,"

Tom smiled coldly, ruthlessly; the truth out at last.

"A shame," he sighed, then waved his wrist dismissively.

The response from his followers at the silent motion was instantaneous.

All prior attention on the boy completely vanished. He was invisible. He was filth- hardly worth the particles of dust drifting through the waxy fumes stemming from the Great Hall's many candles. The transfer student would be forgotten in a matter of days, and any Slytherins who deviated from this conviction would be at the risk of their own reputations. With only his duty to show the boy around Hogwarts, it would take less than a week to be washed of him forever. He might even go to the Headmaster to suggest a change of House for him.

He did not look at the boy again, nor did he take in his reaction to being ignored– a mistake in hindsight, as he would soon learn that this newcomer was not one to be overlooked– and, if he had, he might have seen the ghost of a knowing, smug smile flicker over those starkly thinned, sweet features.

_III_

As it turned out, Tom didn't have to guide Harrison through the castle after all. The boy was assuredly missing the majority of the time, doing whatever it was that he did– no doubt getting lost, catching up in classes, learning knew names and faces.

All for the best, because it allowed Tom the time to focus on more important things: his Knights, his NEWTs, and perhaps the beginning of his political connections that direly needed to be forged. While he did know several politicians through their relationships with his club, he hardly trusted any of his underlings to the job of getting said politicians under his control. They were still children and still so very inexperienced in the artful craft of manipulation. Perhaps the key then, was to train them for political dancing? Though, their pureblood parents should already be doing that.

_Never trust anyone but yourself to get a job done_, he'd once been told. Not even aristocrats, it seemed.

"Tonight," he drawled silkily, walking a large circle in the dank dungeon, feeling the hungry eyes of his followers watch his path eagerly, "we're going to do things a touch differently."

They waited, still against the moist, stone walls, a firmly united front ready for his command. They still had no idea how well they were being trained. He had called them for the term's first gathering. In their earlier years when Tom had started these private lessons, they'd focused mainly on the history on Black Magic; it's origins and evolution through the years. But now, with their NEWTs and the eventual Hogwarts graduation on the horizon of a few of his special group, Tom had decided it was high time they got to the practical side of things. The _active_ side.

"Abraxas," he called softly, his voice carrying over his quiet fellows in the earth-scented chamber. The blond Malfoy heir startled at being called out so familiarly, but showed little surprise to having been called upon. "Walburga, Ignatius. Come here please,"

They trickled out of the cluster of excited and nervous Slytherins; Malfoy, Black, and Prewett, lean and proud as every pure elite should be. He would have been quite proud of them were he capable of such affections. The three chosen, _privileged–_ oh yes, privileged, and it was only right as they were the three eldest. It did not even have to be said, and all of the chamber's occupants knew that the three Tom had called out were _favored _that night. They made a graceful arch before Tom, their steps muffled by the thin mold growing underfoot, clouds of spores drifting in their wake.

"Tonight," he repeated so softly, coldly, that the edges of the party shifted testily, huddled more tightly together as if that'd keep Tom's presence from swallowing them up. He met the eyes of each of his temporary elite before continuing, "we will be exploring the _physical_ aspects of Dark magic."

The seductive words rolled effortlessly, penetrating pureblood pretenses with an ease that had him reveling in his rhetorical skills.

He'd practiced hours– _days– _ on his voice during the isolation of the summer months. A proper leader lead without shouting, commanded his underlings with nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single word. He'd watched men with power fall because of their inability to command the full attention of an audience without raising their voices. Tom, surly, would not be one of them.

He had _his_ audience captured. Their eyes were alight. They were silent.

Good.

"I trust that you have all read the sixth year's level _Curses and Counter-curses_?" He didn't wait for an answer as it wouldn't have mattered anyhow because the curses they'd be performing that night were not in any Hogwarts curriculum. He wasn't ready to disclose where he'd gathered his knowledge, though. There was no need to equip invalids with an index of weapons they weren't ready for.

"The text addresses what makes a spell innately Dark," he continued, pulling his wand from his robes in preparation. "And the key quality that sets Dark magic apart from all others is the way it makes the caster _feel_."

Tom motioned for Abraxas and the others to take a step behind him.

"_Riscus Tracto_," he stated concisely, slowly, wand raised so that he could write the words in the air in a pulsing, bright orange, and swipe along the bottom so that the letters would rotate and face his audience. They were caught in his lecture so raptly, and the feeling of their attention and worship had Tom standing a bit straighter.

He gave a cruel smile over his shoulder at the three behind him; let them feel as if he was including them in a secret.

"You will not find this curse in any of the books in Hogwarts, as it is a certain death to the target. In its original Latin, it reads '_chest drawing'_ or '_stretching'_, and it is literally the stretching of the ribs until they either tear apart or burst through the skin, causing irreparable internal damage and almost instant death..." Tom trailed off, then purred out in a sultry voice filled with dark promises, "Depending on the _force_ one uses."

"If you will...," Tom gestured to his three _favored_, and they, in unison, reached into their robes to withdraw a vial each. They uncorked them, tipped them over and allowed what appeared to be dust trickle to the floor. Tom watched with a buzz in his veins as particles vibrated and began to gather until three full grown barn owls perched in a huddle at their feet. He'd taught them that enchantment earlier in the week, having snatched the birds from the Owlry for this very purpose.

Tom withheld a feral grin, his stiff cheeks stretching painfully against his zygomatics. "Observe."

And quick as lightening, he turned his wand on one of the hooting birds, nonverbally performing the curse.

The effect was instantaneous. Before the owl could take flight to safety, there was an obvious moment of alarm in the animal before its sides expanded grotesquely. There was a brief moment of resistance in the skin, and then: a splattering of bones, blood, and feathers. He'd wanted to go easier, allow his peers to see the forced internal movement to better get an idea of the curse's effects, but he'd felt too excited even before the first wand-flick in the series. The Dark magic was singing in his curled palm, and zigzagging up his heels from the earth to his kneecaps. Ah, well.

He stepped over the mess carelessly, a thin rib crunching under his foot with little resistance as he moved closer to the huddle of Slytherins while Walburga released another owl.

Tom gave them each an appraising look before his three chosen for the night took it as a sign and raised their wands; horrified squawks rang in Tom's ears, and confetti feathers rained over him, a macabre parade in his honor.

And from then on, their mere _meetings_ became _training_. A ground to perform Black Magics and, as Nott would be the first example for his continued impertinence, to be subjected to them.

Tom had so many _plans_: to open up old, forbidden texts he'd gotten hold of in Knockturn Alley; to introduce his Slytherins, his little snakes, to their wonders, because he felt, as their rightful leader, that they were his children to rear and tutor. He could teach them how to boil an enemy's blood right out of their skin; wrap an invisible fist around a man's lungs until they were little more than jelly; manipulate the nervous system in a way that made the Cruciatus seem like _child's play_. Tom was determined to bring them under his sheltering scales, push them to their absolute potential, and then– harness the power he'd made out of them.

"Tom... eh, Riddle I mean, will you pass me the sprigs?"

Tom pushed the bowl of sharp, glittering hooks with the end of his wand to Lestrange's elbow without comment as he was busy writing an extremely in-depth log of observations, per Slughorn's demand. He decided not to call his classmate out on his mistake of addressing Tom by his first name.

Their potion was a soft, pale blue instead of the bright yellow it was meant to be, but they still had a full page of instructions left to handle, and Tom had _told_ Lestrange to organize their ingredients before even thinking of beginning.

"...just don't understand the purpose of having to write essays!"

Tom cut his eyes away from his parchment to the couple beside him, temporarily distracted by their nattering.

"Rookwood, you're an idiot. Stop complaining about the homework you're too lazy to do and give me those beetle eyes."

"But, Al..."

"That's _Alphard_ _Black_ to you."

"Stop being such a prude..."

Tom tapped the pads of his fingers on his parchment patiently. The quiet conversations held in the small, dark room were almost a cushion for him; a padding between where his thoughts should be (the Volubilis potion) and where his thoughts most often went.

"Harrison!"

Lestrange's hand jerked, nearly spilling an extra drop of Honeywater into their cauldron, and he glared at Slughorn reproachfully for shouting in the middle of his concentration. The individual chatter came to a stop as the man rose from behind his desk, blocking the black chalk board behind him and beckoning towards the back of the room in a 'hustle' sort of way that Tom had often seen the old maids at the orphanage do to rally up the young ones for tea.

"Late again, I see," their professor announced, but he didn't appear all that angry.

Tom blinked, turning so that he could see the transfer student hunched in the doorway, a faint flush at his neck. "I'm sorry, Professor. I got lost."

His books were stacked unevenly in his arms, a trail of parchment floating out behind him, and his uniform even more disheveled than it had appeared his first day. Had he always had this hour Potions? But, of course- he was a sixth year. Assuming his entrance exam results had been high enough, and going by Slughorn's account, they had been more than satisfactory, they should have had all of the same classes. And yet, Tom held no memory in the past three weeks to confirm it. Had the boy been there everyday the whole time?

"Lost?" Slughorn blurted out as Harrison shifted uncomfortably at the attention he was receiving from the rest of his class. "But I asked Tom to be your guide-"

The boy brushed his professor's confusion off with a casual shrug; "I insisted I knew the way by now, but I accidentally took a turn too soon once I got down to the dungeons. They're really quite elaborate, aren't they? I even found a room covered in feathers."

"Feathers?" Professor Slughorn asked incredulously.

"As if someone had had a pillow fight," Harrison affirmed with a very serious nod before he faltered ever so slightly. "And used actual birds instead of pillows. It was gross."

"Is this bloke for real?" Lestrange whispered, his usually pinched face fully showing how absurd he found the new boy.

"Just one of this castle's many mysteries," Slughorn stated, sighing wistfully as he ushered the boy in with a hand. "Why, just last week, I was thinking that I was low on flobberworms and not ten minutes later, did I stumble into a room literally _raining_ them! Perhaps you will soon find yourself in need of harvesting one of an owl's many useful body parts."

"I suppose," Harrison muttered, his nose wrinkled in disgust, and plopped down in a seat next to a round faced Ravenclaw.

Tom watched the boy set up his equipment intently, feeling his hairs rise as he waited to see if he would say anything else. A room in the dungeons that was filled with brutalized birds?

"Riddle," Lestrange whispered. "You don't think...? Our meeting last night with those owls..."

Tom turned to glare at his classmate only to find that Lestrange was not the only Slytherin thinking along those lines. He gave their stricken, tense faces a stern gaze, trying to order them to _get a grip_.

"Don't be daft, Lestrange," he scolded quietly, hardly moving his lips so as not to catch any attention. "We cleaned up after ourselves. It is merely a coincidence."

Hardly.

Either Harrison knew more than he should and was threatening to reveal the fact, or he really _had_ somehow discovered one of their rooms. Tom may have banished their mess away once he'd brought their gathering to a close, but that did not mean they had not left an impression in the castle's magic. Slughorn was right: Hogwarts was, in itself, a mystery; an entity that commanded its own magic. They had practically coated that chamber with dark magic. It would have been impossible not to leave any signature of it in the cracks, and the castle was using the excess energy like a scratched record, replaying the curses that they had cast until the disturbance in Hogwarts' magical circulation settled once again.

Tomfrowned thoughtfully. It might be prudent to have someone keep tabs on the boy, just in case he decided to thrust his nose in places he'd be better off being ignorant of.

He watched Lestrange fill a glass vial of their finished Volubilis solution, small sparks still jumping and skating across their smoking cauldron, crawling up the sides and dying with a whimpering hiss. He nodded to Lestrange and corked the vial with a soft stopper once it was finished. They were the first, as usual, and Tom spent the rest of the class reading through his graded Ancient Runes essay.

_Perfect marks, of course_.

He was just turning away from his desk after class in order to follow the flow of students as they scurried out of the door when his teacher's voice made him pause.

"Tom, just a minute. You too, Harrison!"

The tall teen paused, leaning back so that he was half way through the door, blocking the flow of students trickling out like spiders searching for the heat of sunshine they'd been so deprived of the last two hours. Harrison stopped as well, looking at Professor Slughorn expectantly before leaving his possessions at his table to stand before the man's desk. Tom took the hint, allowing his peers to pass him silently, though he knew they'd be waiting for him outside in the hall. Such good, faithful little ducks.

"I'm sure you both know that tonight, I am hosting one of many special, little dinner parties," Slughorn began with his trademark grin, and Tom suddenly wanted very badly to leave. He hadn't known, in fact, and judging by Harrison's blank stare and conspicuous silence, he hadn't known either. "You _must_ have heard of them by now, my dear boy," Slughorn insisted, giving Harrison a concerned look, because who _hadn't_ heard of the prestigious Slughorn and his equally prestigious social dining? "They're quite famous."

"Quite."

Slughorn seemed oblivious to the sarcasm.

"And I trust you have nothing exceedingly important to do this evening that you'd deny an old man a personal invitation?"

It was a few seconds before Harrison spoke in a very clipped and restrained tone. He obviously did not feel inclined to oblige their Head of House in anything.

"No, Professor."

"Splendid! Just splendid. Tom here is a regular Slug Clubber. He can show you the way tonight. You won't insist to find it alone this time, will you? Without a Prefect or written invitation, you'll be given Saturday detention. And only once you attend will you be given a pass back to your dorms."

Harrison and Tom looked to each other for the first time since their professor had summoned them, and Tom could see the stiffness in the shorter boy's shoulders, but his face was set in cold determination. Tom regarded him, his shabby appearance and altogether unimpressive presence, and wondered just what he might gain by making nice.

"Of course not, Professor."

"Then I'll see you both there! Eight o'clock sharp!"

_IV_

Laughter rounded the table in a clean sweep at whatever flattering and witty thing that'd most recently come hurling out of Slughorn's mouth, the oblong dining table loaded with the night's themed dishes from Romania. Tom sat to the Professor's immediate right as usual, polite and attentive as ever, even if his thoughts weren't entirely present.

"Of course, the Undersecretary would be very embarrassed if this ever got out! Silly man should have made me swear to secrecy," Slughorn chortled, "but he knew he already had a lot to owe me. I was the reason he'd even gotten his first job at the Ministry!"

Of course he was, Tom thought idly, smiling thinly at the man, and took a sip of the old wine. He usually preferred something stronger than the delicate, ivory drink Slughorn had selected for the evening, but he was not about to turn away a free alcoholic drink when it was being offered. Horace Slughorn was a man who firmly believed in culturing students as early as possible, and even those underaged were handed a short tumbler brimming with some soft inebriant from the seventeenth century. If the extra alcohol hadn't made everyone– especially one squat, straw-blond Potions instructor– more talkative, he'd have nothing to complain about.

"Harrison, you haven't touched your drink. Do you dislike whites?"

The boy, seated straight across from Tom, because, as a new-comer, he was expected to sit next to his inviter, startled nearly out of his skin. He turned to Slughorn with a dazed look before he appeared to remember himself.

"Oh! Alcohol makes me sleepwalk."

"Then I regret to inform you that tonight's ice cream was made with rum," Slughorn pouted, a grotesque sight on a man his age and image, and Harrison smiled.

"My teeth are too sensitive anyhow."

It was a lie.

But it was a useful lie, as Harrison now had reason not to get boozed. Tom had begun with such excuses as well, but had eventually decided it would be best to develop a tolerance for wines and whiskeys as his future would likely involve social drinking often. He'd encouraged his followers to do a little drinking here and there as well– not so much that they'd be telling the entire Club their secrets, but enough that they'd be able to hold their own at galas and balls in a few years. He also knew that these little Slug Clubs were an introduction into fraternizing politics and social classes, and any experience he could gather here would be extremely beneficial to him when he began his campaign.

_Patience_, he'd hiss to himself. _You will be greatly rewarded for your patience, Tom Riddle_.

Tom withheld a sly smirk; he was so close to reaching his potential he could almost _taste_ it. Of course, he still had years: to gain real world experience; to travel to the darkest pits the world had to offer; to gather old Earthian secrets that hadn't been seen in any text for _centuries_. He'd leave this small island behind, arm and equip himself with the strength and knowledge to take ancient cultures by their roots and _rip them to shreds_. Then... then, he'd return to Wizarding Britain.

And only then would he rise from the ashes of Grindelwald and Slytherin as the new Dark Lord, burning and rebuilding Britain in his wake.

To think he'd wanted to be a teacher in the past!

He watched Slughorn; an embodiment of the future Tom could have expected had he remained so small minded. A man who collected children he thought would come to greatness, and then fancy himself the stimulus of that greatness while doing nothing but sitting behind warded walls, fat, ignorant, and growing ever stupid. Tom would never allow himself to become _that_; a disgrace to his heritage, a flat out insult to himself and his ancestors.

Tom took a deep cleaning breath to calm himself.

He listened to the students at the table babble about how many points they'd earned their respective houses, what they planned to do with their lives (join the Ministry, go abroad, get married, found a charity). He didn't care much for it, aware that the likelihood of any of them amounting to their grand dreams were slim, but he filed it away for future reference all the same. It was important to know the desires of the other players of this game. One never knew when one might be in a position to make a few tempting and desirable offers in exchange for a good favor.

They chatted easily through dinner, the dishes folding in on themselves and vanishing to make room for the promised ice cream. By this point in the night, students were welcome to mingle among themselves away from the table, and Tom was grateful for it. It was the only time during the club meeting that he could get away from Slughorn's grasp, escape his shoulder clasps and heavy gaze. His thoughts flickered to the transfer student, and felt a hint of cold spite sting his mind. Slughorn would likely be distracted by him all night– he had known enduring the Mudblood's presence throughout the walk to the party would be worth it in the end.

He glanced at the boy's seat– and blinked.

It was empty.

Tom craned his neck around the small room, scanning faces and shoulders for the small build or tattered robes with no luck. Damn, it had happened _again_! Now, thinking back, he couldn't even remember the exact moment he'd last taken note of the boy at the table. He pushed his chair back and knocked the rest of his wine down with a single swig, still eying the room for any signs of Harrison.

"Abraxas," he called softly without looking at the Malfoy heir, knowing his voice would carry over any persons in between them, "did you happen to see where the transfer student wandered off to? Harrison?"

The blond found his side, Lestrange and Walburga flanking him.

"I can't say that I did, Riddle."

Tom pressed his lips together to suppress a frown.

"Well, I can't see why it matters if he's left early anyway," Walburga drawled, "Someone like that doesn't exactly deserve an invitation in the first place. He isn't anything special on top of being a Mudblood and all,"

"A Mudblood?" a boy interjected, elbowing his way through the circle so that he could look incredulously at Walburga. "Are you daft?"

It was the same brunet in Ravenclaw that Harrison had been seated next to in Potions earlier in the day, "Harrison– a Mudblood? How can he be a Potter if he's a Mudblood?"

"A _Potter_?"

The Ravenclaw looked amused. "All this time, you didn't know his name?"

"But," Abraxas looked at the boy shrewdly, "he said he's an orphan. I wasn't aware that the Potter family had any children other than Charlus. Are you certain Harrison is from the Potter line?"

The Ravenclaw sniffed indignantly.

"You can tell simply by looking, Malfoy. He's the spitting image of every male Potter for the last three generations. Being a pureblood, you of all people should have access to the family records. I looked it up weeks ago."

Abraxas was clearly affronted, but the boy kept prattling on in the way Ravenclaws were wont to do, "My theory is that he's an illegitimate son. Potters don't have green eyes, you know."

"Thank you," Abraxas replied, his face taut. It wasn't often that he was snubbed.

The boy seemed to finally understand that no one in the circle he'd invaded wanted to hear any of his theories and that he'd been resolutely dismissed.

As he trailed off into the crowd with a dejected slump in his neck, Tom mulled over everything he'd heard.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of surprise. Of _course_ the boy had denied Harrison as a pureblood surname – it wasn't a surname at all. Tom was momentarily frozen; he'd even called him _Mr._ Harrison, blindly assuming that Slughorn– a _drunken_ Slughorn, no less– had given Tom an appropriate name by which to call the boy.

He didn't like this. Tom didn't like to be wrong.

Normally, he might not care if someone was being secretive; everyone had the right to withhold information, and had this Harrison Potter been in any other House, he wouldn't have spared him a single glance. But he was in _Slytherin_, and Tom had been foolish enough to not keep tabs on the boy. He'd slipped beneath his notice so easily, unrealistically easily, and Harrison– no, _Potter_– had access to the dorms, his dorm mates' possessions, and whatever artifacts and objects they were hiding. He walked the lower cellars everyday to get to the Slytherin Common Room, and his time was spent largely uncharted by... anyone, as far as Tom knew.

He couldn't even say what classes he had with the boy.

If anything, it stated that Potter had lied about his Blood status _for the sake_ of not being of any notice.

_V_

"It is for this reason you are not to leave anything unlocked, unprotected, or out for anyone to find. The phrase _Dark Arts_ will not even be _whispered_ in the Common Rooms, or anywhere else outside of these walls henceforth. We assumed in isolating the threat, it would cease to exist, but our negligence to become familiar with an unknown variable has cost us in face and security."

Tom looked at each of his fellow sixth years to be sure there was not even a shadow of misunderstanding.

"Nott, Prewett; I want you to start taking note of Mr. Potter. Follow him. I shall cover for you in class should you need it, and if Potter displays anything– _anything_– atypical, report it back to me."

They both shrugged, and their lack of compliance irked him. Tom knew he controlled them– subtly. This was the first time that he'd ever outright demanded them to go out of their way for him like this. It was a direct command, and the fact that Tom wasn't sure they would fully obey his command only further incensed him. He turned on his heel to gaze up on the dark, dripping ceiling of their chamber to stall for time, dipping into the reserves of his patience so that the next time he spoke, his anger wouldn't bleed through. The tip of his wand twisted and dug against his own fingertips, and he could feel the power sitting just beneath the wood, _waiting_. It had been an awfully long time since he'd cast anything of _substance_.

"Isn't that unnecessary?"

Tom froze and used his index of memory to label the voice of Raynaldus Lestrange. "Unnecessary?"

"... It's just that... it's not like that Potter kid has threatened us or anything. He's just... _weird_."

Tom knew he couldn't expect others to notice the small inconsistencies surrounding the mysterious boy as his own perceptiveness and insight were on levels far beyond and above than those of his little snakes. He _knew_ this. And yet, the sudden _fire_ that consumed him!

"Raynaldus," Tom whispered, his face white hot in fury, and he hoped that his wrath could be read clearly through his voice alone because the room was dark and he was still smiling, "are you _doubting_ me? Doubting _me_?"

Tom pivoted slowly on his heel, the stone floor beneath him grinding roughly against his metal soles. Lestrange's mouth flapped silently for a second.

"No– _Tom_. _No_. I just..." He swallowed. "I don't understand why we should care so much for some Potter brat,"

"Allow me," Tom answered, dragging the words as if they were impregnated with the weight of the world, his voice barely above a hard rasp, "to further elaborate."

His yew wand went from a lofty relaxed position to poised and ready to launch even the most complex of curses before Lestrange could even understand that he'd just been placed in the line of fire. The group moved to hastily retreat the premises before Tom started dishing out punishment, but he halted them.

"No, no, my _friends_. Stay. _Stay_ and witness your comrade's just humiliation. We are a family of snakes, are we not? A family that operates together, in turn, blunders together."

Tom shook out his wrist, took three pacing steps in the opposite direction to gather his magic and wits, and ripped his arm through the air at the poor frightened boy who'd incurred his displeasure.

The Crucio was wordless and struck Lestrange right in his stomach. He fell immediately, screaming and begging in unfinished sentences and babbling whimpers. Tom felt the curse leave his wand and shoot backwards into his body like a thin blanket of ecstasy, rippling over his chest and shoulders and groin to linger softly, like static, at the back of his head. The strength he'd put behind it wasn't enough to alarm Hogwarts' wards, but it was enough to make Lestrange bite through his tongue and start bleeding out of his ears. Tom was quite good at this particular Unforgivable.

"In fact, I think it is high time we start taking these lessons of mine more seriously," Tom announced over the cries and pleas. "So far, we've only grazed the beginning of an immersion into the Dark Arts. But why are we here? Why do we learn these ancient magicks in secret?"

Tom looked down his nose and wand at the shivering, sobbing Lestrange, released the curse, and repeated very softly at him, "Why?"

He received no answer, but he was not discouraged.

"To prepare ourselves!" he barked. "Why would you learn the Dark Arts if not to _use_ them? For too long Dark wizards have cowered in the grit and mud beneath those pampered, Light fools. I propose we build up resistance. In these very sewers, I will forge _us_ an army. And with this army, Slytherin will wage war!"

"I told you months ago that I'd given myself a new name; that, this name would be one to echo the halls of history forever. Does anyone remember this name?"

There was a tug at his ankle, and Tom's lip curled, gazing down at the wet face of Raynaldus Lestrange with disgust and contempt. "Lord..." Lestrange licked his lips free of blood, his knuckles digging in Tom's calf. "Lord Voldemort... My Lord."

Tom felt a smile curl the ends of his lips. He had to fight off the urge to double over with the pleasure that rushed through him, his blood spiking in an adrenaline rush as he crouched down on one knee to wipe the boy's face free of his sweaty bangs, his palm lingering on his flushed, feverish cheek. Lestrange's eyelashes fluttered wildly, his lips trembling in fear and insatiable longing.

"Yes," he purred, stroking the injured lips with cold, shaking fingers, and Lestrange shuddered at the sound of Tom's voice so soft and close. "Yes, that's correct, Raynaldus. Very good."

_First test run and teaser for Embryo._

_Beta'd by Hazel_


End file.
